NationStates Jolt Archive

Lyle usually didn't come on operations with the other 'Hawks, being the groups sole mechanic-they couldn't afford to lose him, his wonderous skills in patching up bullet holes in aircraft were invaluable, and his time was full enough already.
The previously marvelous man, 'more grease than human' as Rorke put it, had a reputation for screwing things up when he and his Hurricane did come along, and he proved that correct this time.

The 'Hawks, Trevor, the most experienced pilot, and leader, in his Spitfire, Rorke the older member of the group, and most experienced next to Trevor, also in a Spitfire. Lyle in his clapped out Hurricane, Chase, the American, ever the rival and dependable friend to Trevor, having recently 'aqquired' a Messerschmitt Me 262, and Pauline, their supply pilot, in her B-17.

Most missions Chase or Trevor would lead and participate in, Rorke being the ever reliable voice of reason. This mission, however, Lyle insisted on coming along, dragging Pauline along, too, against the wishes of Chase, knowing they would encounter their counterparts-and foes in the luftwaffe, the Nemesis group, commanded by Oberst Kreiger.

The lure of yet another secret German weapon was irresistable to Lyle, to get a chance to tinker with it. Lyle's reputation, as mentioned before, unfortunately proved true once more, as the Battlehawks, all of them, were flying through a cloud of what appeared to be very dense fog at this very moment, struggling to stay airborne. If Trevor could even see Lyle, he would likely strangle him, as to cause this incident, Lyle had flown too close to the aforementioned secret weapon, an overly large cannon of strange design, causing the entire group to witness it firing and landing them in this situation.

Chase was possessed of enough presence of mind to realize this cloud wasn't actually damaging any of their craft, not even his 262, and once he was able to reestablish radio contact with Trevor, he would have to confirm this fact.

Trevor seperately noted that not only had he lost contact with any of the other members of the group, though he could obviously hear them, he had also lost contact completely with any of the Nemesis aircraft they had encountered, and indeed, the cannon and the base itself. It seemed to him that they were floating in a very odd nothingness, seperated not only from each other and their enemies, but their very mission.

By the end of the third hour, Pauline, and the rest of the group still struggling came to understand that they must be enormously off course, and must consider scrapping the mission entirely.
The cloud eventually began to dissipate, to fade, at least enough for the 'Hawks to reestablish contact with each other and realize they weren't over Germany anymore, and hell, weren't even over any place they knew, though they did see large islands in the distance, none of which any of them recognized in the slightest.

They grouped into formation again, guarding their Pauline, their precious supplier from on high of fuel and ammunition.

Trevor's attempts to radio any friendly aircraft failed completely, and not one whisper came from their foe. Rorke suggested Chase, with the superior speed of his 262, go on ahead to a closer distance from the now obviously populated islands, and attempt to contact the occupiers of what they assumed to be Allied held territory, and if it wasn't, Chase would be more than equipped to warn the rest of the group and flee.

Lyle almost visibly shrunk away from Trevor's sight, knowing that even if these islands were somehow miraculously friendly, when they landed, the rest of the group wouldn't be.

Trevor gave the order, and out Chase went, more than a little hesistant to send the message, but eventually he did, having bare seconds to prepare a reserved, almost 'mature' communication, still well away from these, to them, uncharted islands. Closer now, he could see aircraft, or at least man made airborne objects...

"Unidentified craft, this is the Royal Air Force squadron The Battlehawks
Flight Lieutenant James Chase..." At this point Chase notices the happy absence of what looks anything like an enemy aircraft, and continues with the message without missing a beat, assuming them to be perhaps Canadians or Commonwealth Islanders. "...And we are in urgent need of assistance, please provide coordinates...And if you can, directions back to the Isles."

Chase cut himself off after that, well aware that Trevor was keeping an eye on his aircraft. To these strange new people, the 'Hawks would look like a motley collection of military aircraft from a specific era, something out of the ordinary, special even for that time frame, every one of them pre-jet save for Chase's own 262...

The day had begun ordinarily enough for Michusa Moanti. She had begun stumbling around in the half-light of her flat, silencing her radio alarm and gamely flinging open the curtains, only to find that instead of Sound of Music-esque sunlight and rolling hills she was in fact facing the dirty wall of a warehouse through driving rain that spat irritably from a bank of unusually angry-looking cloud overhead. It never seemed to stop raining in this city, and always the combination of water and soot left grey stains on everything.

She had gone through her usual morning routine, enduring the crowded, oppressively muggy heat and smell of the tram from the corner to Central station. The train was about to depart, and she had to run madly for it, bellowing at the indifferent guard as he looked around; but the man was not malicious, even if he didn’t really care too much about how things went as a result of his actions, and let her on. Another boring, ordinary day was already well on its boring, ordinary way as the train thumped and hissed its way through the urban and suburban stations, eventually stopping at a nondescript halt: Hagirai Airport. The rain had begun to ease off by now, and the furious clouds were retreating, exposing a watery patch of unenthusiastically blue sky as she showed her ID to the gatekeeper and walked up to the control tower, neatly sidestepping the gathering puddles formed by blocked drains. The structure had definitely begun to cant.

“Morning all!” Michusa chimed brightly, to general grumbles. Most grumbly of all was Samun, her colleague, who now owed her ten pounds. “C’mon, cough up!” she exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear and holding out her hand.

“You’ll be the bloody ruination of me, you will!” he exclaimed, but handed over the money with a reciprocal grin. “Don’t spend it all at once!”

The morning settled down to its usual, routine inactivity. Traffic around the Gods’ pathway was minimal these days, mostly passengers from Midlonia and puddle-jumping turboprops from the colony city of Brackbridge that bounced around the chain of islands like taxis. Only in Midlonia’s colony was oil in sufficient supply to permit much air travel; everywhere else, the collapse of MOil and the enormous cost of importing fuel had ensured the domination of the steam engine, whether generating electricity or driving machinery directly. It was, so they had been told, in the national interest, and few could disagree with the fear expressed by most of being reliant upon foreign fuel, brought in vulnerable tankers, to supply the needs of the country. Yet Michusa couldn’t help wondering whether having to import fuel was any less deleterious than the power wielded by the coal industry, the railways, the shipping firms and the massive heavy industrial firms such as Red Sun. True, most of them were nationalised, run for the public benefit; but still she was uneasy, in her heart.

Her unease was, of course, in no small part due to the precariousness of her work. At a stroke, she could be out of a job; indeed, the rumours of Hagirai Aerodrome’s closure had been flying around for years. Local wit had it that the distant government thought it had already closed; they could be forgiven for thinking so, for a cursory glance at the battered, rusted hangars, the leaning control tower, the stubbly runways and the general absence of traffic would lead most to think that Hagirai had long since fallen into disuse. There were days that passed with scarcely a plane in sight, in which the control tower staff frequently preoccupied themselves by setting up a hidden dartboard and devising bizarre and dangerous variants on the proper game (which had resulted in at least one stabbed arm and a pair of damaged monitors) or complaining listlessly, watching the rain outside; it was almost always raining in Hagirai. But today, things were about to get interesting.

*****

One hundred and forty miles to the North-East, a very aged Tu-142 patrol bomber drifted over the choppy seas. The plane’s crew kept a careful watch on their instruments, pausing to check the uninspiring view at intervals, but there was nothing of any real interest to report. There never was. It seemed that nobody could even be bothered to try and sneak a submarine into their country’s waters nowadays. So accustomed were they to the eventless days that the radio operator on board the rumbling plane initially thought that the distant, faint signal was a figment of his imagination, the vibrations of the plane’s tired turboprop engines getting to his head again. He half-heartedly adjusted the fineness control and was very surprised to hear the signal again, and stronger. He passed the message on to his pilot, who seemed hard-pushed to understand what was going on.

“What Royal Air Force?” he asked, frowning.

*****

Forty minutes later, Michusa’s day had become a lot more interesting. The Bear’s RO had passed on the signal to the nearest control tower, and now she was trying to work out precisely who or what these unknown contacts were as they approached the aerodrome under her instructions. No ILS, no radar, no IFF beacon… nothing. It was like staring into a black hole, the only emanations from which were heat and noise and almost nonsensical radio signals. Fortunately, the weather was abating rapidly now. She switched frequencies briefly and contacted the Bear.

“Alpha-Victor-Mike-Foxtrot-oh-one-niner-two, this is Hagirai tower. RTequest you maintain contact with unknowns, over.” She watched her radar screen tensely as the Bear radioed a simple “roger”, and the giant bomber’s blip moved closer to the spread of small planes; some part of her couldn’t quite bear to trust the pilot’s ability to control such a vast machine in close proximity to these newcomers, and she chewed her lip nervously. Presently the RO returned.

“Tower, this is 0192; unidentified aircraft appear to be very old, over.”

“0192, tower. What does that have to do with anything?” she snapped. “Over.”

“Tower, I mean really old. These things could have come straight out of World War Two,” insisted the RO. “We’re talking what look like… Hurricanes I think, over.”

“0192, that doesn’t mean anything. God knows there are lots of replicas flying around; and did you ever hear of anyone calling a squadron “the Battlehawks”? Over.”

“Can’t say I have, tower. Out.”

The Bear’s pilot peered at the aircraft, keeping them carefully off his port bow. The enormous size of the Bear made her hard to keep in formation, but at least this lot, whoever they were, seemed to understand that they needed to keep in formation with him until they were guided in. They’re not bad, for civvies, he thought, as the aircraft started to bank downwards and make their approaches two Hagirai’s three runways.

This is without a doubt many times more strange for the 'Hawks as it is for Moanti and the others, but nonetheless they instinctually fly almost perfectly in formation with their own personal welcome wagon. Despite their characterisation of the 'Hawks as civvies, and indeed, the seeming sillyness of the name, if they cared to listen to radio transmission carried correction orders between the aircraft, they'd pick up hints that if they *weren't* actually military, they damn well had the training.

As to the name, with what they were tasked with originally, they were given considerable leeway and autonomy well above that of any squadron of the time.
Any real surprise at the, to them, giant Bear is muffled by their general aura of exhaustion, or rather, combat wearyness, simply happy to have the opportunity to land on a strip they aren't going to be shot at in the doing so!

Formal introductions, and inevitable shock on their part at the very least, are going to have to wait, but for now, guarded awe is the manner of the day.

Michusa watched them down through the dying drizzle, still chewing on her lip as her colleagues discussed the strangers’ appearance. They were all, of course, quite certain that this was some group of well-trained civilians, lost in the middle of nowhere on some sort of rehearsal for a job; it was only the sheer, tear-jerking tedium of an average day at Hagirai that made them so curious. Well, that and the fact that none of them could readily recall any replica Me-262s or B17s lying around. She flicked a few damp strands of her black hair out of her eye, watching as the Bear gunned her engines and roared upwards to resume patrol duty.

Samun was the only one who stayed with her once the aircraft had landed; everyone else, having failed to see the strangers explode in giant, cinematic fireballs, immediately lost interest and returned to the game of Invo-Darts being played in the corner. He chuckled gently from within his ample belly and coughed, giving Michusa a brief olfactory insight into the lungs of a man who had chain-smoked since he was thirteen.

“S’funny, isn’t it?” He asked, his voice bearing a strange resemblance to a cushion covered in gravel. “You sit here for weeks thinking “I wish something would just happen! Then when something half-way interesting happens, we all just sit here and play games.”

She considered his remark in at least thirty-four different ways, and finally condensed her manifold questions into one. “Fascinating as that philosophic insight is, Ochi, I fail to see what relevance it has. Can’t I even be bored differently nowadays?”

“Oh my, yes,” replied Ochi, still smiling. “But you’re not bored.”

“So?”

“So you’re interested in seeing who they are, and what they’re up to.”

“I might be,” Michusa said diffidently, simultaneously wondering why this was making her so edgy. “So what?”

Ochi grinned. “So…”

“Yeah?”

“So you can go out there and meet them, given that you alone of us are sufficiently interested to remain over here.”

“And here was me thinking you were just out to annoy me today.” She punched him gently on his beer gut. “Well I can see I’m meant to think of this as an honour…”

Samun oofed. “Yes, yes you are, you ungrateful woman! And be quick about it!” he shouted as she rose. “I want my lunch by breakfast!”

“What, with your appetite?” she replied, making a “fat bastard” gesture as she made for the stairs. “I always knew you could never trust a guy with a name that sounds like nerve gas!” she shouted, to a chorus of guffaws from above.

*****

She waited at a respectful distance from the aircraft as they taxied towards the little-used terminals, bouncing over the rutted, cracked concrete and sending drizzle flying from their propellers’ tips in a fine, dazzling spray that flashed occasional rainbows for her to watch in the miserable weather. It’s abating, but that doesn’t mean it stops raining. It never stops bloody raining in this place. Michusa shook her head violently, giving her a decidedly Ring-esque look as the rain migrated from her hair, which proceeded, of course, to lodge its ends neatly between her collar and neck, to her (ironically) tanned face. To make matters worse, she’d given up smoking a bare few weeks before, and was now acutely aware of why she’d taken it up in the first place.

“Can’t even have a bloody cigarette,” she muttered, blinking away yet more rainwater. “Stupid bloody family. Stupid goddamn heart diseases. Bet even old Ochi doesn’t worry about those.”

Finally, the planes’ engines stopped, winding down into silence one by one until only the steady hiss of rain and rhythmic pinging of cooling metal were to be heard. Michusa straightened her Imperial National Airlines uniform, put on her best welcoming-but-not-too-inviting, by-the-book smile and went to greet the strangers as they emerged from their craft, waiting until they were definitely all out before approaching one of them.

“Hey there,” she said pleasantly, trying not to make it sound too false (because, quite honestly, at this stage she’d rather they hadn’t turned up and she’d been able to sit in the comfort of a heated control tower) and yet not too informal. “My name’s Moanti. National Airlines ATC.” She paused, having forgotten anything she was going to say, and instead surveyed the five of them slightly apprehensively. “Er… welcome to here. Er, Hagirai.” Another great piece of diplomacy by Michusa Moanti, Ambassador to the Nation of Illiterates.

Hopping out of the fighters is relatively easy compared to successfully landing, preparing and *then* exiting a B-17, so by the time Pauline has put her feet on the ground all the others are moving towards Moanti, looking about like surprised children for a moment. Trevor takes point, and once Moanti has greeted them in her own way, Trevor tips his hat to her and remarks "Greetings, Miss Moanti.."
before sizing her and the general area up, coming to the conclusion that they're about as far from military as Moore is to an olympic runner, which relaxes the whole crew a little.
"...and not to be crude, but where in ye gods are we? Formalities can wait, as I'm sure you have about as much desire to stand here as we do." He gestures to Pauline and Rorke. "Make sure noone nicks anything, you two."
"You don't need to tell _us_ that."
"/Then/ follow us. I don't want anyone here being curious about the 'seventeen and making any craters in the runway, least of all us."
"Roight. Sir."

Trevor, Lyle and Chase move to follow Moanti, eager to get out of this weather, and as Chase passes, he grins in Moanti's direction, reaches into a pocket of his flight gear and hands her a large, expensive looking cigar wrapped in a waterproof package with a great big eagle plastered on it, still grinning all the way to their immediate destination...

“Hagirai, central island of the Gods’ Pathway. DPUO, in case you don’t know; not many do, these days,” Michusa continued, feeling it best to see the thing through to the end. “I sometimes think we would have been best staying as a colony… ‘hem. Sorry you couldn’t see it in better weather; it looks marginally less dreary then. Anyway, er… oh.” One of the strangers was handing her a cigar. “Oh, thanks,” she responded, pleasantly as one can through slightly gritted teeth.

“So anyway, who are you and what d’you need? Staff’s pretty tight these days so they don’t come out unless we tell them to.” Hardly a great admission, Michusa knew, but she was not in the mood for pride. This rain was already driving her bananas, although these people seemed decent enough.

“Just to get out of this rain, really,” replied Trevor pleasantly, apparently unfazed by the weather. “Then we’ll need to get the kites worked on a bit - Lyle here will help your people if they’re not au fait with them. Might I add…”

“… that I’m at your service, dove!” The cigar-dispenser, American judging by his accent, piped up brightly. “Lootenant James Chase, at your service.” He followed it up with a grin that could have illuminated some of the moon’s darker craters, but Michusa was less than impressed already.

“’Dove’?” she replied, in an agreeably withering tone, her eyebrow raised slightly. “Listen, Mr. Chase: I’m no ‘dove’ to anyone. And I think you’d better have this back”, she added, shoving the cigar back into Chase’s pocket roughly. “Now can we get inside, before I start to get the urge to climb down wells and attack people from TV screens, please?”

“Sure thing, Dove.” Chase grinned even more winningly as Michusa turned, lighting up the cigar and taking a long, satisfied puff. “I needed that, by the way. But fortunately, I have one spare, for you.” He handed it to Michusa with a flourish, and to his surprise she accepted it, tucking it neatly into her top pocket before making for the distant tower.

Trevor gritted his teeth, scowling at his ever-dependable comrade. “Chaaaase…”

All innocence, Chase gave Trevor a look of deep and hurt surprise from behind the cigar. “What? What did I do?”

“If I have to tell you I’ll make sure I find a method involving scorpions, Chase. Now move it! And the rest of you, come on!” Trevor strode off after Michusa, leaving Chase giggling in a fug of cigar smoke. “Aw c’mon, dove! Cut a dashing pilot a little slack, will ya?”

“CHASE!”

Chase guffawed. “Sorry, sir!”

“You bloody will be!” Trevor thundered. “Get your sorry arse up here!”

Michusa had halted, scowling almightily in Chase’s direction. Waiting until the rest of the group had caught up, she removed the surly countenance and replaced it with one of near-angelic sweetness. “Since you’re so… dashing, Mr. Chase, I suppose you don’t need a poor li’l dove like me to sort things out for you. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be off now - ta-ta!” And with that she strode away to the tower, boiling inwardly and vowing that the cigar in her pocket would be the recipient of some very unpleasant flavouring. Tobacco and vinegar… well, it sucked last time, she reflected brightly.

Trevor shouted after her receding form. “Wait! Miss Moanti, we really do…” but he was cut short as the tower door slammed. Trevor spun round to face Chase, only to find him just completing a “you know you love it really!” gesture at the Tower windows. Looking out from them, Michusa counted herself lucky that the glass was sound-proofed. Trevor’s face had reached a shade of red not seen since the days of the Red Star. Her chuckles were interrupted by a hand on her shoulder; Samun had appeared by her side.

“Who are they, then?” Michusa grunted.

“What’re they after?” Grunt. “Micha… is one of them bothering you? Because if he is - and I hate to remind you of this - it doesn’t matter a damn. We still need to know who they are, what they want and why their planes aren’t registered.”

“They’re not registered?” Michusa frowned. “But that’s pretty well impossible, surely?”

Samun made an “sort of” gesture. “Yes, in theory. But that doesn’t stop people, does it?”

“Nah, true enough.” Michusa huffed, still staring at the flinching Chase. Bloody cocky yank… I’ll show him who’s a dove!

“Anyway… is one of those blokes bothering you,” Samun asked gently. “I know you’re on edge and all, but…”

“…yes, yes he is. But he won’t be in a few minutes,” Michusa concluded with a smile. And with that she vanished to the kitchen, leaving Samun to wonder.

*****

The rain had become heavier still when Michusa went back out to see the ‘hawks. Transforming itself into a curtain, it hid even their aircraft from view, pounding down onto the pock-marked concrete and stinging ears and fingers. The weather was moving in fast.

“Sorry about that departure!”

“Miss Moanti, I…” Trevor began, stepping forward and doffing his hat again.

Michusa smirked. “Oh, don’t worry about Mr. Chase. I think he’s going to be quiet for a while before too long.” As Trevor puzzled over the remark, Michusa handed back the cigar to Chase with a flourish even more florid than his own earlier attempt. “Thanks, but I’m not a fan these days.” And nor will you be after that. Bloody yanks, groins before brains… “Anyhow, we have a few issues to clear up with you, and I’d very strongly suggest we get inside before we all drown!” This time, the ‘hawks kept up with her as she jogged briskly to the tower, slamming the heavy fire door behind her. She shook out her hair, spraying water everywhere, and grabbed Trevor’s shoulder, her voice low and conspiratorial as the rest of the ‘hawks removed their sodden outer layers.

“I need you to come with me, alone. It’ll make things easier to work out.” She jerked her thumb upstairs, and Trevor followed her, leaving the other ‘hawks to speculate briefly.

“Miss Moanti, I really must apologise for Chase’s behaviour”, Trevor began again as they bounded up the stairs. “He’s a good man, a loyal friend and whatnot, but he’s just a bit… over-enthusiastic.”

“Oh, that’s all right”, Michusa beamed. “Between you and me, I think he’ll get much less enthusiastic after that cigar.” She beckoned Trevor into the tower’s operations room.

Downstairs, Chase was just beginning to think that his cigar tasted awfully strange when Trevor and Michusa approached down the stairs. “Well,” Michusa said with a sigh,” we’re still not sure who you are, but you’re welcome to use our facilities. Anyone who wants to join me downstairs is welcome to.” She bounced off down to the lower level, the recreation area, and had already poured herself a strong mug of coffee by the time Trevor and the woman returned. To her surprise, it was the latter who spoke, Trevor contenting himself with slumping in one of the soft chairs that lined the room’s periphery.

“Sorry about Chase, Miss… Moanti, is it? I’m Pauline, this bunch’s resupply barge.” She plonked herself down alongside Michusa, keeping a respectful distance. “I find that controlling his supply of alcohol and tobacco helps. Spreading of which, what happened to his cigar? He was kinda going green when he left.”

Michusa giggled raucously, stifling her laughter at the image so as not to appear obnoxious. “Leaving aside your colleague’s personality for as long as is remotely feasible, Pauline, I think I did something slightly cruel to him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I… kinda dipped his cigar in vinegar.”

Vinegar!?

“For several minutes.” Michusa smiled sheepishly. “I shouldn’t have, I know, but he was bugging the hell out of me… where have the others gone, anyway?”

“Oh, they’ve gone to help your people with our aircraft, Miss Moanti,” replied Trevor from behind a steaming mug of tea. “By the way, do you mind if I smoke?” Michusa shrugged.

“Be my guest. I used to, but then the whole ‘history of heart disease’ thing turned up. Bloody family, eh?” she asked, her leg jiggling agitatedly. Pauline reached over to her with what looked like chewing gum. “Oh, thanks muchly.”

“Y’welcome. We’ve all got our problems, haven’t we?”

“Y’got that right!” Michusa slumped herself into the chair, kicking off her shoes (which promptly flew into the coffee table and amputated one of its legs, previously held on only with sellotape) and stretching her legs as she sipped her coffee. “So, where do you come from anyway?”